ask me about the weekend
a meditation on salt air, childhood friendship, and the quiet miracle of being seen
Ask me about the weekend I had, walking barefoot across wet rocks during low tide, eyes alert, spirit open, searching for treasure in the pools and crevices. Ask me about the abalone shells I found, shimmering like secrets under the cool, rippling water. When I spotted one beneath the surface, my whole body lit up. I felt like a little girl again. Delighted. Wild. Alive.
Ask me how the sea speaks when you finally stop to listen. How abalone shells glimmer beneath the tide and something in you glimmers too.
Ask me how the wind danced across my face, scattering bits of sand that cracked like rock candy against my skin. The ocean spoke in every gust, in every soft roar that met the shore. It felt like something sacred trying to get my attention.
All day, peace wrapped around me like a ribbon. The cold water around my toes, the salty breeze in my hair—it reminded me of a deeper kind of faith. One I can’t quite name, but it feels as ancient and steady as the tides. I felt held. I felt safe.
Ask me about the steep hill we climbed down, using a rope for balance. We laughed, a little nervous, steadying each other and trusting the path would lead to something good. And it did. At the bottom, we found it: a quiet, untouched beach, sun-warmed and wrapped in breeze, entirely ours.
We laid out sandwiches: salami, cream cheese, prosciutto, chicken. Crunchy bell peppers and cucumber on the side. It was the kind of meal made with care, meant to be savored. The salt on my lips, the sun on my skin, the wind in my hair—it all tasted like freedom.
In a quiet moment on the shore, Bob Marley lyrics echoed in my head. “In high tide or in low tide, I’ll be by your side.” I looked up and saw them—my dad and Jax—standing at the water’s edge. Their silhouettes looked like a prayer. In that instant, I knew I wasn’t alone. I never have been.
Ask me about the sea and her soft, steady call. No matter how long I’ve been away, she always finds me. The silky waters, the wild rhythm, the way she reminds me who I am. She knows when to show up.
Ask me about the poached eggs, cooked medium well, served over toasted sourdough with seeds and butter. Next to milky coffee, it was a breakfast made with love and eaten slowly. It was comfort I hadn’t realized I was starving for.
We spent our afternoons sipping tea, curled into soft couches, nibbling English digestives. These simple pleasures, the kind that arrive gently, felt like healing in the quietest form.
Ask me about the friend I’ve known since kindergarten. My mirror. My memory keeper. My sister in soul. We used to run barefoot around her pool, flashing like sunlight on water, our laughter loud and careless. Her dogs, Poppy Seed and Blueberry, looked like muffins. After long summer days, we’d split a Nacho Bell Grande from Taco Bell, sunburned and happy, our joy as melted as the cheese.
Now, here we are again. Grown, changed, still us. A weekend away with her stirred something old and sacred. After everything we’ve both faced—loss, heartbreak, love, and letting go—we still find peace in each other’s presence. Our lives keep moving in parallel, like waves brushing the same shore.
Ask me how loved I felt. How deeply grateful I am for her kindness. For how she and her friend took care of every detail so I could rest. So I could finally slow my tired soul. It had been nearly seven years since I last visited her family’s home, but everything came rushing back. The sea air. The cool tile floors. The distant sound of seals barking on the rocks. That closeness felt like something I’d never lost.
Ask me how easily we fell into rhythm, like dancers who know the steps by heart. She hugged me tight that final morning, and I didn’t want to let go.
But I did. And the tears came. Soft, necessary, grateful.
Ask me how content I felt. How whole. How thankful I am for a best friend who’s walked beside me through every season. From giddy childhood to aching grief, from reckless youth to quiet strength. She’s seen me in laughter, rage, exhaustion, and joy. She’s steady, like the seals on the rocks. Always there, always sounding out the truth of the place we both call home.
We used to sip wine in her backyard, stay out too late, chase stories. Now we sip tea, pick shells, sit in silence, and let it all come back. Our bones are tired. Our spirits wiser. We sit, remember, and wonder what’s still to come.
So much has changed. People, places, routines, even our bodies. But the important things? They’ve stayed steady. The feel of familiar places. The joy of small rituals. The strength of a bond that doesn’t break.
These are the things that call us home. To ourselves. To wonder. To presence.
If you’ve ever returned to a place that once held your younger self...
If you’ve ever been loved gently through a storm...
Then you already know the kind of weekend I’m trying to describe.
I hope you, too, find moments to slow down.
To feel the salt on your skin.
To eat eggs cooked with love.
To remember that you are held—by people, by memory, by the sea itself.
What places, people, or memories call you home again?
Let me know in the comments—I’d love to hear what anchors you.
P.S. If you're craving a pause like this, join me for a quiet celebration of the Summer Solstice. We'll gather, breathe, and return to ourselves. Learn more here.